Sunday
by carrot-fries
Summary: G!P Quinn misses church, but her guilty conscience keeps her away.   Warning: If you hate 2nd person perspective, then stop, drop and roll. This isn't the fic for you.


**Title**: Sunday

**Author:** carrot_fries

**Rating**: M

**Pairing:**Quinn/Rachel

**Summary:**

**Warning**: G!P (Girl peen), Not a church bash, but it might still be offensive.

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><p>One day you're not a virgin anymore, and the guilt ice washes over you faster than your post orgasmic bliss can clock in.<p>

You find it hard to stare at any mirror you've passed since it started. The pervert staring back at you is hard to stomach. You only glance at yourself when you're primping to go to the Church of the Holy Nativity on Sunday, because you can't afford to be a sloppy Anglican. Yes, Anglican. You can't figure out why everyone at school is convinced you're Catholic.

All your worst fears are confirmed in the sermon.

Sex before marriage is dirty.

Yes, you're a pervert.

You're going to burn.

When deacon Dawes sends word by your mother that he misses your presence in church four weeks later, your reply is along the lines of: Anglican is to teenage girl, what Catholic is to Choir boy, I see. You were joking, of course, but your mother still cries and questions you for half an hour, until she's satisfied that no man of the cloth has been touching your pee-pee.

Your guilt doesn't set in until she switches church three weeks later— for no apparent reason. Poor deacon Dawes's reputation. Curse your unfortunate sense of humor.

Church or no church—you still like your bible. You read it everyday.

Judy isn't too pleased with your freelance bible reading, surprisingly. She's convinced that reading the bible without proper guidance (from a priest) is how serial killers are bred. You laugh her right out of the room.

Your mother is a nut-job in need of help— from Jesus. Too bad there isn't any baptismal pool she could wait near, for an angel to stir the water; too bad there isn't one you could, for that matter.

You find that without the influence of your old bible study group— you start to see the words on the pages differently. You appreciate the ambiguity of God and the clever misdirections of his disciples. From what you've read, you can tell there are rules, a butt load of rules and rules that teach you how to read the rules.

But there's a get out of jail free card.

You can bypass that mess if you're lucky enough to find the secret underlying message: Do what makes you happy if it doesn't hurt anyone.

Well, You swear that's what the apocryphal gospels are about, anyway.

You desperately want to share that message with your mom. And you would, if you could just stop picturing yourself homeless, because Judy refused to live with you and your new found pagan mouth. Plus, you're convinced that your new perspective might amount to justification for your activities with Rachel Berry.

You don't want to be absolved. Not by your own steam, at least.

Again with the guilt. You're Quinn— always guilty— Fabray, aren't you? Maybe that's why people think you're Catholic.

You miss the service, but you're still too filthy to go back.

The week after you quit church was fun— you spent that Sunday up Rachel's skirt. You actually planned to spend all your Sundays making whoopie with her, all day long from that point on. And that was all well and good, until you realize a few things: 1. you're not superman, and 2. there are about twelve more hours of Sunday left after you've gone floppy.

You're a grade grind, but homework couldn't fill the three hour void, so you join a book club. Jesus wept, you joined a book club!

Tina Cohen Chang is in the club, and it makes you feel a little better. You have someone to roll eyes with, when selections turn out to be from Oprah's bandwagon.

When it's Tina's week to share, she recommends a book by some french man— Marquis… something, something. You keep forgetting his name, but the title sits with you: The 120 Days of Sodom.

She tells the group how the book is riddled with sick and twisted things that almost made her lose faith in humanity. She guarantees the club that they'd never be able to finish the story. And if they did, it wasn't an accomplishment to be proud of.

When she sits down, she whispers to you that she hadn't actually read the book, but she needed to punish Jenny McDonnell for making her read _A Million Little Pieces_.

You high-five her at the end of the meeting for being a brilliant little troll.

You decide to read the book, because you need some more confirmation that you're a dirty pervert. You get the pdf. file on your computer, because you're a private pervert, after all. Asking for a book like that in public isn't something your —ex-Anglican— heart could handle, at the time.

You expect to see yourself on every single page, when you finally get around to reading it.

Half an hour later you're in the bathroom gagging and spitting and trying to vomit.

You've never been so happy to be a wimp.

You conclude that your little tea-cup of, "preferences" is nothing compared to the sea of nastiness out there.

You're a saint by default, and somehow that is good enough for you.

After that bit of enlightenment. You take a "so what?" outlook on your life.

You like trying to paint Rachel's body with your sticky, sticky load. So what? You like watching your stuff slide down her eyebrow. So what? You make her walk on her tippy toes while you're still inside her. So what? There are parts of Rachel that grip you tighter than others and make you hiccup when you come. So what?

All that matters is that Rachel likes it just as much as you do—sometimes more.

Your list is hefty and you haven't even waxed (teehee waxed) lyrical about toys as yet.

Pity.

The point is— you built your bridge and you used it to scuttle back into church.

You're on the back bench, of course. This isn't a fairytale. You're now Quinn —sort of guilty yet unrepentant—Fabray. You've made your peace but there's no need to be barefaced about it, you're still Anglican— you didn't suddenly decide to join the United Church of Christ.

For Christ's sake.

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><p><strong>An: Kinda sorta based on "Sunday" by Sia.**


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